


Glass Houses

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Headspace, references to rape/abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3113786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You decide that’s who you’re going to be: someone so rich she’s untouchable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Houses

Your father buys you dolls.

You brush their soft hair, caress their smooth skin. You dress and undress them over and over again, making and remaking them as you see fit.

You’re nine when you realize he’s been training you to be one of them.

\--

Your mother watches you play.

You loathe yourself, at first, for being unable to work up the nerve to talk to her. When you finally learn to quantify it, you realize that all along, you had been wondering: all that time she spent keeping an eye on you, how has she not seen the way your hands shake involuntarily, the way you walk on eggshells around him, the way you eat less, sleep less, try so desperately become less?

And later: how has she not noticed the bruises?

Your first broken bone is your breaking point, too, all of it spilling out of you at once. _You must be mistaken,_ she says. _You fell, that’s all._ Her eyes slide off you, just like they’ve been doing all along.

That’s when you realize all she’s ever going to do is watch him play, too.

\--

Your school counselor apologizes when you tell her. You don’t understand why, at first. Her pained _I’m sorry_ is as useless to you as an expression of sympathy as his would be as an admission of guilt.

When she calls your mother to come pick you up, you realize maybe it was an admission of guilt after all: I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you.

You run away that night, and when, twenty minutes into your flight, someone shoves you against the wall and demands your wallet, you realize exactly how woefully unprepared you are.

Your salvation is the fear and the rage in your voice as you whisper _please don’t touch me._

She doesn’t take your wallet. She takes your hand, instead, takes part of the weight of your story from you.

 _I can’t help you,_ she says. _But I know how you can help yourself._

\--

 _Do you understand what you’re asking, little girl?_ The demon is a dagger in a lace garter, a gun in a sequined purse, beautiful and deadly as you one day hope to be.

 _For less than I deserve,_ you say, and figure it’s a good start.

When she kisses you, it’s with your informed, enthusiastic consent.

\--

You understand it only in hindsight: He may not have had enough respect to be immune from the law, but he had enough money that he would never be touched by it.

You decide that’s who you’re going to be: someone so rich she’s untouchable.

\--

You don’t owe them shit, but you’ll be damned if they don’t act like you do.

You’ll be damned, anyway, but that’s beside the point.

You’re not even that angry, when they burn the rabbit’s foot. You may have had to buy your salvation, but your luck? You’ve always made that on your own.

It’s their hypocrisy that bothers you. That double standard they turn on you, just like everyone has always done.

They have the audacity to think you a monster?

So be it. They say a person is only as good as their upbringing.

\--

The hellhounds dig their claws into you without mercy.

Your last, absurd thought, right before you die, is _well, I’ve felt worse._


End file.
